


keep your eyes on me

by seoseouls (kihoseok)



Series: no one does it better [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Gen, Kinda, Like, Lots of Angst, M/M, Non Idol AU, PTSD, abuse recovery, doctor yeri, hospital au, no direct description of violence, patient taeyong, receptionist johnny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 13:24:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13502416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kihoseok/pseuds/seoseouls
Summary: "your doubts of me are constant remindersof why I should stop hopingit's hard to dream with eyes stitched openi can feel them pull me underthey can take my sights but they can't take me"in which johnny is a doctor for the mind





	keep your eyes on me

Youngho had grown used to the monotony of working as a receptionist at his local clinic. The angry soccer moms and exasperated old men who demanded to speak with his manager all blurred together as he took ID numbers and checked in patients. Some days he swore even their faces blended together into one bland, unremarkable canvas beneath his computer screen addled eyes. 

But some days, things were different.

A boy his age entered the clinic, Youngho noticed him pacing before he ever _really_ saw him. He was wearing a black hoodie about 3 sizes too big for his lanky frame that was pulled so far over his face that Youngho couldn’t even begin to make out what he looked like and a pair of frayed, worn skinny jeans that showed just how painfully thin he was. They got patients like that every day, itching for a quick prescription to fill for whatever got their motor running. Legally, there was nothing Youngho could do but alert the doctor on shift, so he picked up the phone and prepared to dial. However, when he saw the boy begin to approach the desk he placed the phone back on the receiver and put on his signature “ _I totally don’t hate my job_ ” smile. “Welcome to Seoul International Hospital, how can I help you today?” He quipped robotically, maintaining his smile as he finally got a look at the boy.

He was beautiful, Youngho thought, even with the red and purple marring his left eye and the scabs lining his knuckles.

He had striking white hair that peeked out from the hem of his hoodie and a sharp jawline to match, making him seem almost ethereal. His eyes, however, told a different story. The one that wasn’t marred by bruises was clouded by a broken look that seemed to reach into Youngho’s core. He seemed aged beyond his years, a swirling sadness inside his eyes that couldn’t be read just by a single look. His left eye was red where there should have been white. A ruptured vessel, he assumed. 

Youngho didn’t think angels were supposed to look that broken.

The angel’s hands shook as he slid his ID card over the counter to Youngho.

****_Lee Taeyong_  
ID: 375665-1266780  
Birthday: 950721  
Pre-existing conditions: N/A

Youngho had to resist the urge to grimace when he read the boy- _Taeyong’s_ age. He didn’t think someone could look so young but so old. 

He could see Taeyong bouncing on the balls of his feet as he input the numbers into the computer, checking the box to notify Doctor Kim that her patient had arrived. He left a small note in the ‘patient notes’ box about him possibly being an addict, but looking at him, Youngho doubted it. He picked the card off the counter, extending his hand to the other across the divider. He didn’t miss the way that Taeyong’s eyes flicked between his hand and the counter before extending a shaky hand out to take the card. Had Youngho not seen his fingers close around the card, he would have doubted the other had even grasped it, even his touch was feather light and hesitant. 

He disappeared through the doors of the examination room before Youngho even heard him speak.

( ~ * ~ )

After his shift, Youngho walked into the break room, finding Doctor Kim at her usual seat next to the coffee pot. 

“Yerim-ah,” He said, taking a seat next to her after brewing his own cup of coffee. “What was the deal with the patient that came in earlier, Lee Taeyong? He was banged up pretty bad.” Yerim raised a knowing eyebrow at him from her cup, a sly smile gracing her lips as she set it down on the table.

“I knew you didn’t come here just to talk shop with little old me, Youngho,” She said, chuckling to herself. “And no, I get it. He was pretty bad. Without breaking confidentiality I can tell you that he-“ She hesitated before continuing. “It wouldn’t be too far of a reach to say he’s getting the short end of the stick at home.”

Youngho simply nodded, staring into his cup for a moment before looking back up. “So, saying he really is and it wasn’t just some fight, hypothetically, wouldn’t we have to report it?” He asked, quirking an eyebrow up when Yerim sighed.  
“Hypothetically, yes. But _assuming_ he didn’t let me take any x-rays for lasting damage or tell me about it, _hypothetically_ there would be no evidence to make a report with.” 

Youngho nodded again, sipping his coffee thoughtfully as he thought of the angel.

No one deserved that. 

( ~ * ~ )

Taeyong became a staple at their hospital after that, every time sporting a new, ugly bruise. Sometimes there were cuts, once Youngho even thought he saw what looked like a burn on his hand before it disappeared back behind the folds of his sweater. 

 

It was the day Taeyong came in with a suspicious hand shaped bruise around his neck that Youngho finally snapped.

It was the end of his shift when Taeyong checked in, this time sliding Youngho his card with minutely shaking hands instead of handing it over. They’d built a repertoire like this, Taeyong slowly coming out of his shell the more he saw the clerk. When he’d first spoken to him, Youngho had been shocked by his voice. It was raspy but still clear, and it seemed to fit him. It had been like this for the year since Taeyong had visited the clinic: He would hand Youngho his card and say a quiet hello, and as Youngho checked him in they [read: Youngho] would make small talk. Mostly Taeyong just nodded along, but sometimes he would add a tidbit to Youngho’s elation. 

However, that day he didn’t get a hello, no reply or even nod, just a card slid across the counter to him. What he did get, however, was a glimpse at an ugly red and purple handprint stamped on the shorter’s neck. He felt something inside him stir and rise to the surface, an odd sense of protectiveness and sadness that choked him up, a ghost hand to match Taeyong’s gripping his own throat. As morbid and selfish as it was, he had grown to both enjoy and dread Taeyong’s visits. He loved the small tidbits of conversation he could draw out of the younger and despite the bruises that painted his face, found him beautiful. 

But every time he saw a new bruise, a new cut, a new scrape, a new, deeper sadness in Taeyong’s eyes, he felt his heart break more and more.

 

He was outside smoking a cigarette when Taeyong exited, pulling his sleeves down further down his arms as he began to walk. “Hey, Taeyong,” Youngho said, keeping his voice low so as to not scare the other. Taeyong started, wide eyes with healing yellowed bruises staring up at Youngho. “It’s just me,” He assured, putting on what he hoped was a comforting smile before dropping his cigarette onto the pavement. “Can we talk?” 

He didn’t miss the way Taeyong’s eyes darted everywhere but to him, to every exit route and most of all to the still burning cigarette on the pavement. 

“You don’t have to, you can leave if you want to, I just wanted to talk.” He said, leaning back against the building and turning his palms outwards to show he wasn’t holding anything. “I’m not going to hurt you,” He added on, much quieter this time.

“Sure,” Taeyong replied, his voice raspier than usual and so quiet Youngho almost had to ask him to repeat himself. He kept his distance, and Youngho couldn’t say he blamed him at all. Taeyong stayed a solid three feet away from him, hands shoved so deep into his pockets Youngho likened them to a bottomless void.

“I just wanted to talk,” Youngho breathed in, closing his eyes. “About you. I’m worried Taeyong. You’re in here every week. I know I’m just a receptionist but I see you and-“ He gulped, trying to find the smaller’s eyes. “And I’m scared for you Taeyong, what’s going on?” He asked, keeping his voice to a low hum.

Taeyong visibly flinched, tensing up as his eyes began to flicker again. “Nothing,” He rasped, shoving his hands even deeper into his pockets. “I get into fights. I live in a bad neighborhood.” He replied, eyes fixed on the tip of the still glowing cigarette. 

“I’ve been in fights Taeyong, and that-“ He gestured to Taeyong’s whole body “That’s not what this is.” He tried to keep his tone soft, still non-accusatory. “Whoever’s doing this to you Taeyong, it isn’t love. They’ll keep doing it, they won’t stop. You don’t deserve this, and I’m scared for you,” He said, raising a hand up to his neck. “That? That isn’t love. They’re escalating. I don’t want to see you hurt again.” He said, holding back a flinch when Taeyong’s hand flew up to his own neck.

“You don’t know anything about him,” Taeyong spit out weakly, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “He loves me. You don’t know him.” He said, backing away faster as Youngho sighed. “You don’t know anything about him,” Taeyong was yelling as much as an almost mute person could, force behind the words but no volume. “He loves me, you know nothing about him. I _deserve_ this!” He yelled, again, turning away and running before Youngho could get another word in. 

( ~ * ~ )

Three weeks later, Youngho hadn’t seen Taeyong. Yerim walked into their ward with a grimace on her face, and when he asked why, he wished he hadn’t.

“Our frequent flier was in the ER today. Pretty nasty. Beaten within an inch of his life I’d say.” She said, frowning as she looked down into her coffee. “He just kept crying, asking for his mother. Checked himself out the moment we stopped working on him. You were right to be worried.” She said, sighing again. “No one should suffer like that.”

Youngho just nodded.

 

That day, When Youngho got off his shift, he saw a familiar hooded figure outside. 

“I left him.”

( ~ * ~ )

It had been two years since Youngho had met Taeyong, and a year since Taeyong had left _him_. Progress was slow. Youngho had let Taeyong move in with him, his two bedroom apartment his parents had bought him was too big for just him anyways and Taeyong had been kicked out of his apartment by _him_. 

At first, Taeyong never left his room. Youngho spent most of his time in his own too so Taeyong could move about the apartment without worrying about being afraid. Slowly, they had begun to mingle. Taeyong began to cook, and Youngho saw it as a godsend. His food was delicious, but it was tainted by the fact that Taeyong made it out of perceived obligation. Every day, he woke up to a plate of breakfast and came home to a plate of dinner. When asked why, Taeyong said it was just to repay him for letting him stay, but Youngho had a sneaking suspicion it was because it was something he did with _him_.

About seven months in was when Taeyong realized Youngho wasn’t going to hurt him, when he realized that Youngho had let him in because he was kind, not because he had an ulterior motive. It was when Youngho found him in the kitchen after he got off work, bloody and crying with plate shards scattered around him. He’d been beside himself, crying and begging Youngho not to be mad, to forgive him and please let him stay. He’d thrown himself at Youngho, offering obscene things to make up for his ‘wrongdoing’. After he’d calmed him down, Youngho had bathed a spent and dissociated Taeyong and changed him before washing his bloodstained clothes and dressing the large cut on his hand. He tucked him into his own bed before going into the kitchen and cleaning up the shards of ceramic on the floor and retreating into his own room.

That, Youngho supposes, was the tipping point.

One year in and they were sitting on Youngho’s couch together, Youngho’s fingers tracing a burn scar on the webbing of Taeyong’s hand between his thumb and forefinger as they watched TV. At first, Taeyong had been hesitant to let him anywhere near his scars, flinching away when Youngho so much as grazed them, but after so long, he had begun to accept the touches. 

Taeyong had seen _him_ at the store today, and he had shaken and cried in the middle of the aisle as Youngho held him, forgoing his instinct to _kick the living shit out of the bastard_ to comfort Taeyong. “Baby,” He’d said, caressing Taeyong’s face. “Yongie, sweetie, I’m here, okay? I’m here,” He paid no mind to the glances he could feel on his back, all that was in his mind was _Taeyong Taeyong Taeyong_. “Yongie, baby, look at me,” He said, tilting Taeyong’s head up until shining eyes met his own.

“Just keep your eyes on me, okay? He can’t hurt you anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry??????? 
> 
> title song is the heartless by pvris


End file.
